“And now,” said Sir Charles, shutting the door of Ellis’ room behind them, having, with some skill, shaken off the helpful Mrs. Leckie, “let's see if I'm making an infernal fool of myself, or whether there's anything in my idea.”
In Mr. Satterthwaite's opinion, the former alternative was by far the more probable, but he was much too polite to say so. He sat down on the bed and watched the other.
“Here's our stain,” said Sir Charles, indicating the mark with his foot. “Right up against the skirting board at the opposite side of the room to the writing table. Under what circumstances would a man drop a pen just there?”
“You can drop a pen anywhere,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“You can hurl it across the room, of course,” agreed Sir Charles. “But one doesn't usually treat one's pen like that. I don't know, though. Fountain pens are damned annoying things. Dry up and refuse to write just when you most want them to. Perhaps that's the solution of the matter. Ellis lost his temper, said, ‘Damn the thing,’ and hurled it across the room.”
“I think there are plenty of explanations,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “He may have simply laid the pen on the mantelpiece and it rolled off.”
Sir Charles experimented with a pencil. He allowed it to roll off the corner of the mantelpiece. The pencil struck the ground at least a foot from the mark and rolled inwards toward the gas fire.
“Well,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “what's your explanation?”
“I'm trying to find one.”
From his seat on the bed, Mr. Satterthwaite now witnessed a thoroughly amusing performance.
Sir Charles tried dropping the pencil from his hand as he walked in the direction of the fireplace. He tried sitting on the edge of the bed and writing there, and then dropping the pencil. To get the pencil to fall on the right spot, it was necessary to stand or sit jammed up against the wall in a most unconvincing attitude.
“That's impossible,” said Sir Charles aloud. He stood considering the wall, the stain and the prim little gas fire.
“If he were burning papers, now,” he said thoughtfully. “But one doesn't burn papers in a gas fire.”
Suddenly Sir Charles drew in his breath.
A minute later Mr. Satterthwaite was realizing Sir Charles’ profession to the full.
Charles Cartwright had become Ellis, the butler. He sat writing at the writing table. He looked furtive; every now and then he raised his eyes, shooting them shiftily from side to side. Suddenly he seemed to hear something. Mr. Satterthwaite could even guess what that something was - footsteps along the passage. The man had a guilty conscience. He attached a certain meaning to those footsteps. He sprang up, the paper on which he had been writing in one hand, his pen in the other. He darted across the room to the fireplace, his head half turned, still alert, listening, afraid. He tried to shove the papers under the gas fire; in order to use both hands, he cast down the pen impatiently. Sir Charles’ pencil, the pen of the drama, fell accurately on the ink stain.
“Bravo!” said Mr. Satterthwaite, applauding generously.
So good had the performance been that he was left with the impression that so, and only so, could Ellis have acted.
“You see?” said Sir Charles, resuming his own personality and speaking with modest elation. “If the fellow heard the police, or what he thought was the police, coming and had to hide what he was writing - well, where could he hide it? Not in a drawer or under the mattress. If the police searched the room, that would be found at once. He hadn't time to take up a floor board. No, behind the gas fire was the only chance.”
The next thing to do,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “is to see whether there is anything hidden behind the gas fire.”
“Exactly. Of course, it may have been a false alarm and he may have got the things out again later. But we'll hope for the best.”
Removing his coat and turning up his shirt sleeves. Sir Charles lay down on the floor and applied his eye to the crack under the gas fire.
“There's something under there,” he reported. “Something white. How can we get it out? We want something like a woman's hatpin.”
“Women don't have hatpins any more,” said Mr. Satterthwaite sadly. “Perhaps a penknife.”
But a penknife proved unavailing.
In the end, Mr. Satterthwaite went out and borrowed a knitting needle from Beatrice. Though extremely curious to know what he wanted it for, her sense of decorum was too great to permit her to ask.
The knitting needle did the trick. Sir Charles extracted half a dozen sheets of crumpled writing paper, hastily crushed together and pushed in.
With growing excitement, he and Mr. Satterthwaite smoothed them out. They were clearly several different drafts of a letter, written in a small, neat, clerkly handwriting.
The first began:
This is to say that the writer of this does not wish to cause unpleasantness and may possibly have been mistaken in what he thought he saw tonight, but -
Here the writer had clearly been dissatisfied and had broken off to start afresh:
John Ellis, butler, presents his compliments and would be glad of a short interview touching the tragedy tonight, before going to the police with certain information in his possession -
Still dissatisfied, the man had tried again:
John Ellis, butler, has certain facts concerning the death of the doctor in his possession. He has not yet given these facts to the police -
In the next one the use of the third person had been abandoned:
I am badly in need of money. A thousand pounds would make all the difference to me. There are certain things I could tell the police, but do not want to make trouble -
The last one was even more unreserved:
I know how the doctor died. I haven't said anything to the police - yet. If you will meet me -
This letter broke off in a different way; after the “me,” the pen had tailed off in a scrawl and the last five words were all blurred and blotchy. Clearly, it was when writing this that Ellis had heard something that alarmed him. He had crumpled up the papers and dashed to conceal them.
Mr. Satterthwaite drew a deep breath.
“I congratulate you, Cartwright,” he said. “Your instinct about that ink stain was right. Good work. Now let's see exactly where we stand.”
He paused a minute.
“Ellis, as we thought, is a scoundrel. He wasn't the murderer, but he knew who the murderer was, and he was preparing to blackmail him or her.”
“Him or her,” interrupted Sir Charles.
“Annoying we don't know which. Why couldn't the fellow begin one of his effusions ‘sir’ or ‘madam'; then we'd know where we are. Ellis seems to have been an artistic sort of fellow. He was taking a lot of trouble over his blackmailing letter. If only he'd given us one clue - one simple little clue - as to whom that letter was addressed to.”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “We are getting on. You remember you said that what we wanted to find in this room was a proof of Ellis’ innocence. Well, we've found it. These letters show that he was innocent - of the murder, I mean. He was a thorough-paced scoundrel in other ways, but he didn't murder Sir Bartholomew Strange. Somebody else did that. Someone who murdered Babbington also. I think even the police will have to come round to our view now.”
“You're going to tell them about this?” Sir Charles, voice expressed dissatisfaction.
“I don't see that we can do otherwise. Why?”
“Well -” Sir Charles sat down on the bed. His brow furrowed itself in thought. “How can I put it best? At the moment we know something that nobody else does. The police are searching for Ellis. They think he's the murderer. Everyone knows that they think he's the murderer. So the real criminal must be feeling pretty good. He or she will be not exactly off his or her guard, but feeling - well, comfortable. Isn't it a pity to upset that state of things? Isn't that just our chance? I mean our chance of finding a connection between Babbington and one of these people. They don't know that anyone has connected this death with Babbington's death. They'll be unsuspicious. It's a chance in a hundred.”
“I see what you mean,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “And I agree with you. It is a chance. But all the same, I don't think we can take it. It is our duty as citizens to report this discovery of ours to the police at once. We have no right to withhold it from them.”
Sir Charles looked at him quizzically.
“You're the pattern of a good citizen, Satterthwaite. I've no doubt the orthodox thing must be done, but I'm not nearly such a good citizen as you are. I should have no scruples in keeping this find to myself for a day or two - only a day or two, eh?... No? Well, I give in. Let us be pillars of law and order.”
“You see,” explained Mr. Satterthwaite, “Johnson is a friend of mine and he was very decent about it all - let us into all the police were doing: gave us full information and all that.”
“Oh, you're right,” sighed Sir Charles. “Quite right. Only, after all, no one but me thought of looking under that gas stove. The idea never occurred to one of those thickheaded policemen. But have it your own way. I say, Satterthwaite, where do you think Ellis is now?”
“I presume,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that he got what he wanted. He was paid to disappear, and he did disappear, most effectually.”
“Yes,” said Sir Charles, “I suppose that is the explanation.”
He gave a slight shiver.
“I don't like this room, Satterthwaite. Come out of it.”
Agatha Christie
Three Act Tragedy aka Murder in Three Acts (1934)
Dedicated to my friends
Geoffrey and Violet ShipstonChapter 12
Plan of Campaign
Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite arrived back in London the following evening.
The interview with Colonel Johnson had had to be very tactfully conducted. Superintendent Crossfield had not been too pleased that mere “gentlemen” should have found what he and his assistants had missed. He was at some pains to save his face.
“Very creditable indeed, sir. I confess I never thought of looking under the gas fire. As a matter of fact, it beats me what set you looking there.”
The two men had not gone into a detailed account of how theorizing from an ink blot had led to the discovery. “Just nosing around” was how Sir Charles had put it.
“Still, look you did,” continued the superintendent. “And were justified. Not that what you've found is much surprise to me. You see, it stands to reason that if Ellis wasn't the murderer, he had a good reason to dissappear, and the whole time I always had in mind, deep down, that mayby blackmail was his specialty.”
One thing, at least, resulted from their discovery. Colonel Johnson was going to contact the Loomouth police. Stephen Babbington's death would certainly be investigted.
“And if they find out that he died due to nicotine poisoning, even Crossfield has to admit that the two deaths are related,” said Sir Charles, while they approached London at full speed.
He still was a little cross for having to deliver his discoveries to the police.
Mr. Satterthwaite had tried to calm him down, ponting out that the information wasn't going to be published in the news.
“The guilty person won't know about it. The search for Ellis will continue in the same way.”
Sir Charles admitted that it was true.
When they arrived in London he explained to Mr. Satterthwaite that he intended to contact Egg Lytton Gore. The letter she had sent him bore an address at Belgrave Square. He hoped that she was still there.
Mr. Satterthwaite agreed with this decision. He was anxious to see Egg himself. It was decided that Sir Charles would phone her as soon as they arrived in London.
Egg was still in town. She and her mother were staying with relatives and wouldn't return to Loomouth for another week. It wasn't hard to persuade Egg to dine with both of them.
“She couldn't come here anyway, I suppose,” said Sir Charles, looking around his luxurious apartment. “Her mother probably wouldn't approve. Of course we would have Miss Milray, too... but I think it is better not to. Actually, Miss Milray always makes me feel kind of embarrassed. She is so efficient that I feel an inferiority complex.”
Mr. Satterthwaite suggested his house, but in the end they decided to dine at the Berkeley. Later, if Egg wanted to, they could go somewhere else.
Mr. Satterthwaite noticed immediately that the girl was thinner. Her eyes seemed bigger and a little feverish, the chin more resolute. She was pale, but her charm was as great as ever, her almost childish sincerity as intense as before.
She said to Sir Charles: “I knew you would come...”
Her tone implied, “Now that you've come, everything will be all right.”
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: “But she wasn't sure he'd come; she wasn't sure at all. She's been on tenterhooks. She's been fretting herself to death.” And he thought: “Doesn't the man realize? Actors are usually vain enough. Doesn't he know the girl's head over ears in love with him?”
It was, he thought, an odd situation. That Sir Charles was overwhelmingly in love with the girl was perfectly plain. She was equally in love with him. And the link between them - the link to which each of them clung frenziedly - was a crime - a double crime of a revolting nature.
During dinner little was said; Sir Charles talked about his experiences abroad. Egg talked about Loomouth. Mr. Satterthwaite encouraged them both whenever the conversation seemed likely to flag.
When dinner was over, they went to Mr. Satterthwaite's house.
Mr. Satterthwaite's house was on Chelsea Embankment. It was a large house and contained many beautiful works of art. There were pictures, sculpture, Chinese porcelain, prehistoric pottery, ivories, miniatures and several genuine pieces of Chippendale and Hepplewhite furniture. It had an atmosphere about it of mellowness and understanding.
Egg Lytton Gore saw nothing, noticed nothing. She flung off her evening coat onto a chair and said:
“At last. Now tell me all about it.”
She listened with vivid interest whilst Sir Charles narrated their adventures in Yorkshire, drawing in her breath sharply when he described the discovery of the blackmailing letters.
“What happened after that we can only conjecture,” finished Sir Charles. “Presumably, Ellis was paid to hold his tongue, and his escape was facilitated.”
But Egg shook her head.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Don't you see? Ellis is dead.”
Both men were startled, but Egg reiterated her assertion:
“Of course he's dead. That's why he's disappeared so successfully that no one can find a trace of him. He knew too much, and so he was killed. Ellis is the third murder.”
